Power Trio

Three guys walk into a bank
wearing cheap plastic rock star masks
there was Elvis, Gene Simmons and Ringo Starr
customers stood in line and
laughed at them

It was the day after Halloween
month end deposits
rent payments
welfare checks
Elvis swiveled his hips and flashed
white hot lead
shot the underpaid security guard dead

Well the laughter all stopped
and everybody dropped
Elvis covered the tellers
Gene Simmons swagged the merchants on the floor
while Ringo watched the door

Elvis shucked “thankyouvurrymuch”
Gene told everyone they should be honored he’s robbing them
and Ringo nervously tapped his feet

A few beats later you could hear a siren wailing
backbeat later a tear gas canister came crashing and sailing
Elvis moaned, “We’re caught in a trap,
we can’t walk out”

Shot Gene Simmons in the face and
his tongue flew off
then he shout Ringo in the neck
ever run riverrrun jugular fountain
then he put the gun in his mouth pulled the trigger
and went down to the edge of Lonely Street

to the one on the cover of the men’s magazine 

keep your boobs out there in that impossible world    
they look good under that glittering sun and those enticing palm trees   
though obviously fake they make absolute sense
in an engorged with wealth but starved of humanity kind of way

I’ve got enough problems on my plate
with hospital bills out the ass
and a balloon payment due on that PayDay loan
I can’t afford any of your half naked reality

in my world your golden tatas of temptation 
stick out like the burning bush in a barren desert 
I know better than to listen when they talk to me

keep those holy mounds out there in the land of action movies
where the dicks are small and the air is toxic
I’ll spend my last ten bucks on lottery tickets instead 

No Apologies

There’s the sublime comedown 
of easing
into a bath 
of soft warm blood.
The seeping gore 
is yours for once.
Your immolation is the closest thing 
to an apology 
but you’ll leave no note of remorse.
You’ve read all the books
but still, you can’t explain why
you need libraries 
of bodies 
quietly etched in chalk.
Alone 
you’ve done your best 
to put a dent in the crowd 
but it’s just so vast
and the living are persistent—
teeming like hair lice in city schools.
You’re no idealist
bent upon a mission,
but working with blood
has certainly provided 
a purpose.
But now, you’re ready to plunge 
six feet deep 
into a rabbit hole
full of flesh.
You’re ready to vanish 
like a whisper 
from a hard-won hell.

Pegging Queens

They were on the news again —
the objects in the sky.
There was footage of 2 hovering
above a cornfield in New Jersey,
then a reporter was interviewing
2 guys on the street.

One of the guys said, “I did see them, 
yeah! They disappeared. They looked 
like drones. I looked up in the air 
and I saw them and I said to Joe
over here” — he looked at the other guy — 
“‘There ain’t no way those are planes.’”

The other guy (Joe) said,
“I think it’s aliens, to be honest with you.”

I said, “Hmm,” and unlocked 
my phone. I was just remembering
that my friend Dave had sent me
something earlier that morning: 
an invitation to a Facebook group 
called, “NEW JERSEY MYSTERY 
DRONES – LET’S SOLVE IT!” 

I accepted it now, then started going 
through the posts. There was one 
by a guy with a long Santa Claus beard 
that read, “THE DRONES ARE SPRAYING 
CHEMICALS NOW! IMPORTANT! VIDEO 
IN COMMENTS.” I watched the video,
which showed an airborne plane leaving
some normal-looking contrails behind it. 

There was another post by the same guy
that said, “This is obviously Russia
trying to steal our technology,”
and included a photo of a drone
suspended above an empty field
with no technology in sight
besides the drone itself.

I said, “Hmm,” and went through more posts.

A person with a beagle as a profile picture
said, “The Pentagon just shot down 
an Iranian mothership. Link in comments.”
I looked at the link in the comments.
The name of the article was “PENTAGON
SHOOTS DOWN IRAN MOTHERSHIP CLAIMS.”

I watched a few more videos of the objects. 
Some looked like planes. Some looked like drones.
Some looked disc-shaped or cigar-shaped.

Then I noticed this post from a ufologist
that had been shared to the group several times.
It read, “At the risk of creating a panic,
I want to be transparent with you all:
these are not drones. These crafts 
are being piloted by inter-dimensional beings 
from interstellar civilizations. They are peaceful.”

I said, “Hmm,” and clicked to see the comments
on the original post.  Someone asked,
“Peaceful? Have you never heard of anal probes?”

The ufologist didn’t respond.

Someone else asked,
“What do the aliens look like?”

The ufologist didn’t respond to this either,
but a person with the moon
as their profile picture did:
“Pale skin. Humanoid. Usually female.”

I said, “Hmm,” and went out into the yard.
I dug a half-broken lawn chair out
from a pile of trash behind the garage
and sat on it. The sky was cloudy, 
but it could have been cloudier.

I was optimistic. I wanted magic. I wanted 
to be the least xenophobic human. I wanted 
pale-skinned goth babes and anal stimulation.

I tilted my head back and waited.

Zoo

The moon throbs 
just so, like a cock ring 
or Nadia’s dildo. I’m spangled 
and dreamy and drinking Blue Heaven,
hot mouth, azure slur. The trees
are green mansions. 
I keep mishearing poems.  
If you see Kay 
tell him we’re playing Telephone
with Radovan 
and Lady Mondegreen.
Pattie is boo-
fucking-hoo 
about some boy 
who looks like Susanna Hoffs. 
The poets are beefed up 
performing Coney Island 
and San Francisco
dead mothers
faintings and blackouts. 
I take my temperature with your tongue
damned to hell. 
I tell the lion that the Brazilian stole my bush. 
Is it weird to go to the zoo alone?
I drink Lime-A-Rita at the art auction
talk to a ceramist about Sweden’s moose migration
wrench nonsense into sense
mishear someone calling my name
read the label under a painting of Christ  
as Gladly, the cross-eyed bear.
Fuck, is that Susanna Hoffs? 
I feel like I’m dying 
when someone asks me 
if I’ve ever read 
“How to Write an Avant-Garde Poem”
and even worse
when she says 
she’s asking for a friend. 

Geography of Love

That the geography of my beloved guide me
It is a truth like a temple
Presenting me, on our wedding day
The value of a sigh, and a gasp
Of a she donkey and an Ass.
Before all things discovered
That her love nest
With its hair and signs too
Showing me that girl’s prick
Which I thought was big
But was tiny
Leaving me after sucking
Her noble nipples
Remembering in the books I had read
That the clitoris and the nipples
Have dazzled old men, young men
Nobles and commoners
Priests and friars
Sacristans, countrymen
Soldiers, courtiers
White, black, or yellow
Slobbering fools and idiots.
Brazenly, and making out
Conjugating the verb “to copulate” 
With the Kama Sutra
Hindu book
I was inserting it into her vagina
Adorned with colostrum
Begging her to watch attentively
What I was putting inside her
Unfolding her large lips
And her small lips
Telling me something like “I can’t.”
Opening her mouth wide
Pure, clean, smooth
I inserted Quartz Agate
Bauxite, Blende, Flint
Sylvina, Limonite, Chalcopyrite
Her vagina remaining
Like a smoky Quartz
Fake Topaz
Hyacinth of Compostela, Agate
Which pleased us both
She exclaimed:
-I’ll make a very pleasant observation:
Friend Fucking Dick, Love first
¡Who could conceive
That a faggot like you
would Illustrate my Cunt with his cock!
Then, with a hoarse sound
I mounted her from behind like an Ass
Forming highs and lows
Strong different movements
Defining Love
As it should be defined
Pouring out my audacity
Against her neck
She driving certain resonant winds
Into my terrifying balls
Exclaiming:
-Thank God
We both know how to bray.

Poem for a Man Who Fucks the Ice Fishing Hole

Was it the auger drilling down that did it for you?
Surely it couldn’t have been these freezing temperatures,
so many things become an indoor sport up in these parts.
So imagine my surprise when I stumbled upon you this morning.
Watched you face down, pants around the ankles.  Slamming into the ice.
Slurring your dirty talk across a trackless waste.
You think you’d be alone for such activities, but you’d be wrong.
And now, there is this poem for a man who fucks the ice fishing hole.
Making up with vigour, what he lacks in style points.
A few of his swimmers turning the local ice fishing derby on its head.
Mayor Kickbacks is going to have to introduce new standards.
Though this one seems pretty locked to the cause.

Bicycle Dan

He goes to the movies
almost every day
and since getting sober
so do I
“A drink now
would be like putting out
a house fire
with gasoline,” he says
There is loneliness in my life
but not enough to ever ask
if Bicycle Dan wants
to meet me at the theater
nor is his loneliness so great
that he would ask me
We are not the stars
of this particular movie
only extras.

fire

writing 
should not be 
w/ out bursts. 

typing 
is dragging 
a wheelbarrow 
upside down 
on cement. 

writers 
are not 
scrapers.

writing 
is fueled 
by want, 
not wear. 

if you sit down 
w/ out a fire lit 
under your ass, 
stand up. 

and go
deliver mail 
or something. 

Buddha Penis Dream

A boy walks a dog to the post office. The boy must mail a letter. The boy must be mindful not to slip on a banana peel. The dog is missing a paw. The banana peel becomes the whole street, and the boy slips and slips. 

The boy laughs. The dog barks its paw back into existence. The boy’s father appears before him as a cat burglar. The boy must rake the leaves. The boy must finish his homework. The boy must steal brass balls. The boy’s penis turns into a Buddha and discharges many Oms. The boy smiles and completes a symphony in Sanskrit. The crowds in Tibet go crazy. They’re committed. They’re on meds. They tear each other’s hearts out for breakfast. 

It’s daddy day. The boy’s letter to daddy is lost in the mails, evades destination in favor of Noble Truth number godfuckingdamnit. 

The dog loses its paw again, and shits bananas for breakfast. The entire post office slips on shit. The boy’s Buddha disappears like a thief in the night. 

His homework is done. The leaves are toast.